


Chained to his unseen stride

by Beleriandings



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-08 20:25:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4318815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last Fëanorions wait for the dawn to attack Eonwë's camp, to try to regain the Silmarils one last time. And as the new dawn breaks, they can't help but think of their father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chained to his unseen stride

They sat by the edge of the cliff in the cold light before dawn, both brothers momentarily silent and lost in their own thoughts. They were within sight of the camp of the host of the Valar, or would be, if it had not lain over a small rise. Maglor could see the fine tendrils of smoke coiling into the still, cool air from the watchfires.

The watchers couldn’t see them though. They had chosen this spot for that exact reason.

Maedhros was sharpening his sword, the hilt pinned steadily between the stump of his right wrist and a large rock, his left hand making smooth strokes with the whetstone. A practiced motion. The sound the stone made against the blade was loud in Maglor’s ears, boring into his mind, and though he knew they were too far away from the camp to be heard, he could not help standing up and craning impatiently. The plan was to wait and watch and strike at dawn, but he felt restless suddenly, anxiety fluttering through his heart.

He almost laughed.  _The desire for self-preservation. I wish I could get rid of that instinct; we have no need of it anymore._

_Perhaps it has been supplanted by the Oath, anyhow._

“Stay low, Káno” said Maedhros, not looking up or pausing in his work. “Even now they could have people out watching for us.”

Maglor turned to look at his brother, the colour drawn from his hair and gear in the dim light. He sat down opposite Maedhros and ran his thumbs over the hilts of his own twin swords, feeling the inlaid steel, as familiar to him as the strings of his harp, as his brother’s face and voice. He watched Maedhros for a moment longer, until the sound of the whetstone against the blade began to grate in his mind. “You did that before we left” blurted at last, hating how much he sounded like a child before his brother.  _Even now, even after all this time_.

Maedhros did pause and look up at him at that. His mouth twitched into the ghost of a bitter smile, accentuating the twisted appearance of his lip when a jagged scar tugged it up at the corner. Slowly he put down the whetstone, wiping off his blade and sheathing it. Something in the movement of his hand as he let go, clenching his crooked fingers into a fist, made Maglor think that Maedhros was forcing himself to still his movements. “I suppose I did, yes.”

They were silent for a little while longer. “Nelyo” said Maglor, watching his brother twitch at the sound of his old name, as he always did though he made no other protest.  _Not when it was Maglor that said it. Never for him_. “Father… do you think he knew?”

Maedhros frowned, his eyes narrowing a little. “Knew what?”

“That we… when they write songs about us, that we will not be the heroes. Do you think it ever occurred to him?”

Again Maedhros’ lips twitched. “You mean when  _you_  write a song of today’s deeds - ” he let out a quiet bark of bitter laughter, that sounded almost painful “ - of our triumphant reclaiming of the Silmarils from the very grasp of the righteous Eonwë himself and the victorious host of Valinor, then you will  _not_  write us as the heroes?”

“ _I_  will not write that song” said Maglor quietly. He knew his brother was joking, in that hard, strange and sharp way Maedhros had sometimes, but today he had no stomach for it. “And you know it. But others will.”

Maedhros narrowed his eyes, searching Maglor’s face. “You do not think we will survive this.”

“Neither do you.”

Maedhros ignored this. “Do you  _want_  to survive?”

Maglor snorted. “Do  _you?_ ”

Maedhros dropped his head and said nothing, merely sighed. There was a short silence, which was broken by Maedhros. “To answer your question, I think that father did  _not_  know, but he would have realised, in the end, had he lived longer. The knowledge that he was the marring upon Arda - just as he always feared - would have killed him in the end anyway, though.”

Maglor nodded heavily. “Do you think… do you think he is watching us, even from the Halls?”

Maedhros’ narrowed his eyes once more. “Well, perhaps we will soon find out.”

“Don’t say that. We cannot afford to think such things, if we are to regain the Silmarils. And…” he felt his voice crack. “And… I cannot lose you.”

For a moment, Maedhros’ gaze softened, his mouth slightly open as if he were about to speak, and he seemed to search Maglor’s face. He placed his hand upon Maglor’s shoulder for a brief moment, and then he sighed, turning back to the east, where the smoke from the camp was just beginning to catch the first bloody light of dawn.

“The sun is rising” he said, his voice flat, completely uninflected. He pulled up the heavy cowl he wore, hiding his bright copper hair lest it catch the morning light. “Let us do what must be done, brother.”

Maglor bowed his head, pulling up his own hood and trying to shake the crushing weariness that was tearing at his heart, before placing his hands upon the hilts of his swords.  _None of that mattered; it was all irrelevant, there was only the Oath_. “One last time.”


End file.
